


And you shall take me strongly in your arms again

by OhAine



Series: The Dance [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Minor Injuries, Sherlock is growing up, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 11:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3893941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He was tense about something but she couldn’t figure out what.  Two years ago, that would have had her on emergency alert, waiting for the storm to make land fall, wondering if he was about to walk away or do something to harm himself, but somewhere in the last year they’d finally been able to just let it all go, exhaled and began to breathe again, and then one day, when she wasn’t even looking, he’d become the man she’d always known he would be."</p><p>My love letter to Sherlolly shippers everywhere.</p><p>Contains spoilers for part 2 (don't ruin the fun - read that first - go ahead, I'll wait here)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And you shall take me strongly in your arms again

**Author's Note:**

> Title and song quotes taken from "Sweet Thing" by Van Morrison.
> 
> Medical advice was taken from the internet, so you know it must be true.
> 
> Un beta'd, all mistakes and inaccuracies are my own.
> 
> I own nothing, Morrison, Moffat, Gatiss, Conan Doyle, Miss Brealey and Cumberbatch's curls have all the rights.
> 
> I'm a hopelessly romantic sort, so bear with me when I say this:  
> In my minds eye, I see part one as Molly's love letter to Sherlock, part 2 as Sherlock's love letter to Molly, and part 3 is my love letter to them both.
> 
> I've never been to Venice, hint, hint Mr OhAine ;)
> 
> If you've read the first two parts firstly thank you, and secondly you'll know that they were dedicated to my lovely husband; but I'm breaking that (5 day old) tradition to dedicate this one to Sherlolly shippers everywhere, and to you the reader. I've been reading fan fiction for the last 8 months or so - sometimes hitting the kudos button, sometimes commenting - but never really realising that it might mean something to the author that I took the time. I know now that it does; so thank you to you all.

  
 

_“And I shall drive my chariot down your streets and cry_

_'Hey, it's me, I'm dynamite and I don't know why'_

_And you shall take me strongly in your arms again_

_And I will not remember that I ever felt the pain.”_

_______________

 

_“So, what now?”_

_“I don’t know.” He looked at her, serious for a moment, “But what if for now we just dance?”_

 

_______________

****

**_One year later…_ **

 

The windows of 221B, Baker Street were ancient, maybe not original to the building, but definitely old.  So old in fact that the glass was rippled and in winter the flat was draughty and constantly cold.  But that also meant that when it was warm out and the sun shone, like it did today, the whole living room was bathed in glorious heat.  Heat that Molly Hooper, curled on the sofa and wrapped in the blanket that usually lived on the back of John’s chair was positively basking in; enjoying it as much as the lousy day she was having would allow her.  She’d been dozing lightly since she had gotten home from Bart’s, the fine early May weather had meant that the streets were deserted in favour of the country side and public gardens and the only sound she could hear was the clock ticking quietly. 

“Molly?”

“Mmmnnh go ‘way Sh’lock.”

“Molly?”

“Go ‘way.”

“MOLLY!”

That did it, she was definitely awake now.  Her head still hurt as it was, the last thing she needed was Sherlock raising his voice.

“You’re slurring your words Molly, I’m going to call John…”

“No Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare. Just – just give me a minute.”

“Molly, with concussion…”

“Medical degree Sherlock.” She gave him her best withering glare.

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighed and threw in an exaggerated eye roll for good measure “just let me check your pupils and see how steady you are on your feet, and then you can go back to sleep if you still want to.”

“Ugghh fine.”  This apparently was going to go on every two hours for the rest of the night.  Sherlock was going to take medical advice seriously for once it seemed.

She rolled off the sofa, swayed a bit, and then presented her full five feet three inches to Sherlock, who scrutinised her as though she was a particularly interesting severed limb.  She looked up at him; he was either ridiculously tall, or she was comically short – she could never figure out which.

He held her chin, and tilted her head back, turning it from left to right to get a better look, “Hmmm, no dilation, that’s good,” he kissed her nose, “walk for me, let me see you.”

Molly grinned playfully, “Let me guess - to the kitchen, Oh! and stick the kettle on while I’m there, yeah?”

He smiled at her, “No Molly, not today.  You’ve got a free pass,” he watched her cross the room then return to her position in front of him, throwing her arms wide in a _Ta Da!!_ gesture, “you seem fine, go on, sit down, I’ll make you tea.” Another kiss to her nose, one to each of her eyelids too.

 _Oh,_ she thought, _maybe her day was improving!_

*****

 

He went off to rummage in their bedroom while waiting for the kettle to boil, and then re-appeared from the kitchen, hot beverages, as promised, in hand.

“I am sorry Sherlock, about the trip,” she reached up from her cosy spot on the couch for the mug of tea he’d brought for her, “I’ll re-book everything myself, I’ll make it up to you.”

“It’s fine, we’ll do it some other time,” he said to her genuinely, “Feeling better? Head ache gone?”

 “Hmm,” sipping her tea, “much better thanks.”

It had only been a mild concussion, she’d carelessly hit her head on an open body drawer at the morgue when she’d bent down to pick up a file she had dropped, but it had been enough to knock her out for about thirty seconds.  Mike had taken her to Bart’s A&E and she’d spent half the day being x-rayed, scanned and otherwise internally recorded and documented for posterity. The intern at A&E had advised her against flying, it made no difference anyway, the delay had meant they’d already missed their flight to Venice.

She never would have guessed it before they were a couple, but Sherlock had a _desperately_ romantic streak in him.  Maybe the violin should have given it away, or his twenty first century Mr Darcy impression – all dramatic curls and a coat that, let’s face it, were he born in another era, would have been a cape.  He’d been planning the trip for months; she’d told him once  while lying in bed one night, years ago when they were still in Italy, that she had always wanted to stroll through St. Mark’s Square at sunset, and then one Monday evening about twelve weeks ago she’d come home after a long day at work to find first class plane tickets and a booking confirmation for a suite at the Cipriani sitting under her favourite chipped mug on the kitchen table with a note that said he’d found a case, a nine apparently, and he’d see her later.  She didn’t hear from him again for three days, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to be mad at him. 

In truth she was hoping the trip would help him to relax a bit, he’d been a tightly wound coil for weeks now.  He was tense about something but she couldn’t figure out what.  Two years ago, that would have had her on emergency alert, waiting for the storm to make land fall, wondering if he was about to walk away or do something to harm himself, but somewhere in the last year, since the night of Libby and Mycroft’s wedding, they’d finally been able to just let it all go, exhaled and began to breathe again, and then one day, when she wasn’t even looking, he’d become the man she’d always known he would be. 

He’d been quiet but not withdrawn, introspective maybe, his violin had been in almost constant use but the music had been light, romantic almost, but nothing she recognised – maybe he’d composed it himself;  he’d been avoiding conversation with her, but grinned genuinely at her almost constantly.  Just when she thought she had learned all his moods, he presented her with a new one.  Maybe she’d always have something new to discover about him; she hoped so.

He sat now on the floor in front of her; his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, balancing a book in one hand, tea in the other. She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at his curls then letting them bounce back against his head when her fingertips reached the end of each strand, the evening sunlight still streaming in through the windows caught the undertone of red in his hair.  He tilted his head back to give her better access and with his eyes closed leaned in to her touch.  The heat from her hands warmed the oils in his hair, causing the scent of his shampoo to rise, lemon and bergamot, the same as his aftershave and shaving cream.  Floris, she knew, ridiculously expensive but she couldn’t imagine him using anything else.  In the time before they lived together, and after he’d spent the night at hers, she would use his pillow after he left just to inhale his scent.  She hoped he’d always use that shampoo just so she’d have the sense memory of him in her bed. 

“You disappointed about Venice?”

“No Molly darling,” he sat up straight taking her now empty mug from her and put it with his own discarded mug and book on the floor, “No.  I just wanted you to have a perfect weekend, that’s all.”

He turned around, kneeling on the floor beside her. Leaning in to her, he rested his forearm on the couch in front of him, and with his other hand he swept a loose strand of hair behind her ear and then traced a finger over her cheek bone, across her lower lip and down her throat to her collar bone.

“I keep trying Molly but I can never find it,” he paused to look at her, “I keep searching for a perfect day, a perfect moment and it never quite comes.  I’ve been thinking about that since Mike called earlier; that a perfect moment can’t be manufactured, can’t be planned.  Maybe the perfect moment is every moment, _any_ moment, that I get to be with you.”  He leaned forward and kissed her, he rested his forehead against her cheek, closed his eyes, “I love you Margaret Ann Hooper.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I love you too.”

They stayed like that for a moment before he continued, “I’ve been looking for that moment for a long time Molly,” he took a small black velvet box from his pocket, her hands flew to cover her mouth, she held her breath, eyes wide. “I bought this two months before you were taken by the Russians; I’ve been waiting every day since for the perfect moment to give this to you.  I’d planned the whole trip around it; I was going to ask you to marry me at sunset in St. Mark’s Square.  But it occurs to me now that sunset in Baker Street is just as good.”

Shifting onto one knee he took the platinum and emerald cut diamond ring from its box and taking her left hand in his he said “I’m not prepared to waste another second waiting for perfection, when I already have that in you.” Quicksilver eyes looked at her intently, he drew a breath, “Molly, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

She pressed her hands tightly against her mouth to stifle the noise that was trying to escape, and when she couldn’t contain herself any longer pressed forward to kiss the man kneeling before her, moving so suddenly that he lost his balance under her weight and they both tumbled to the floor.  She landed on top of him; her chest pressed to his and began kissing him in earnest.  He rolled her over gently until she lay on the floor and tried to pull out of the strangle hold she had on him.

“Molly?”

She leaned up, kissed him, kissed him again.

“Molly?”

“What Sherlock?” she said, muffled, as she nuzzled into his neck.

“Molly,” another kiss to his neck, his collar bone, as he tried to hold her at bay, “Molly, I believe it’s considered proper etiquette to actually answer the question when someone asks you to marry them.”

She gave him a wide eyed grin, still on her back, “Oh God! Did I not say it out loud?”

He shook his head, curls in disarray, “Um, no. But that’s ok, I sometimes do that too.”  He graced her with a beaming smile.

“Yes, Sherlock, of course the answer’s yes.” She was incandescent, lit from within.

He knelt up pulling her with him, and finally placed the ring that had already been hers for so long on her finger.

Concussion or not, Molly pulled him back to the floor, and began to undress them both; the only thing that she intended to wear for the rest of the night was her ring and a smile.

 

_______________

 

_“And I will raise my hand up into the night time sky_

_And count the stars that's shining in your eye_

_J_ _ust to dig it all an' not to wonder that's just fine_

 _And I'll be satisfied not to read in between the lines.”_  
 

_______________


End file.
